


In case you didn't know

by TheKatlocker (TheKat79)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Coming In Pants, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Alternating, Parentlock, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, S4-fix-it, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-06-10 10:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15289992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKat79/pseuds/TheKatlocker
Summary: Sherlock loves John, John loves Sherlock... Are they ever going to tell each other?Spoiler: they will, but it's not that simple. As if it ever is.This fic takes place a few months after S4, parentlock included.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a songfic, based on Brett Young's - 'In case you didn't know' and was supposed to be a little oneshot, but for some reason I couldn't get it to work properly, so I let it sit for a while.  
> Turns out it just needed a 'few' more words and things became a lot smoother.  
> Two thirds of this fic are written, so updates shouldn't take too long.  
> Enjoy.

Sherlock was in the kitchen like every other morning since John and Rosie had moved into Baker Street about five months ago. He was preparing breakfast, tea for John and himself, a cup of lukewarm milk for Rosie, toast for all three of them and today, because it felt like it was going to be a good one, scrambled eggs and bacon. Setting the table, waiting for John's footsteps on the stairs, the two of them entering through the kitchen door, Rosie on John's hip, smiling brightly. Like a ritual already, one that Sherlock very much enjoyed. 

“Mo'nin Sh'lock,” in a cheerful, high-pitched voice.  
“Hey, good morning Sherlock,” in a voice where Sherlock could hear the smile John's face was showing before he even saw it.  
Sherlock turned around and his heart made a happy twitch when he saw the two people he loved most in all this world smiling brightly at him.  
“Good morning you two,” he heard himself say and his heart was nearly overflowing with joy.  
John settled Rosie in her high chair, like every morning and then came Sherlock's favourite part.  
He tried to deduce in advance what John would be doing, just by the lightness of his footsteps on the the stairs and the brightness of his smile when they entered the room and he was right more often than not.  
John would give Rosie a kiss on top of her head, or he would ruffle through her blonde curly hair, or he would squeeze her little shoulders with both hands, which always made her giggle. Or, when he felt especially affectionate after they both had a particularly good night's sleep, like today, he would hug her from behind and press a big kiss onto her rosy little cheek. Rosie giggled and slammed her chubby, little hand on the table with bright eyes that were fixed on Sherlock, as if to say, 'look Sh'lock, what Daddy's doing'.  
Sherlock smiled at them and turned back around to finish preparing their breakfast and John would walk around the table and in a few seconds he would vanish down the corridor and into the bathroom and Sherlock would look after Rosie until John came back to settle down for their shared breakfast. 

Sometimes, when Sherlock was very, very lucky, John would catch his gaze before he went to the loo and give him an affectionate smile and Sherlock would feel so very warm inside. He knew that this smile wasn't meant for him exactly, it was because John had a lovely moment with his daughter and Sherlock was allowed to witness that, but it made Sherlock feel warm inside nonetheless.  
Though he had noticed that John's smiles tended to grow wider the longer he looked at Sherlock lately. But anyway, today was no such day because Sherlock had already turned around before John had had a chance to look up, in anxiety that John would be able to see right into Sherlock's heart. That he would see that Sherlock was deeply and utterly in love with John and he couldn't just let that happen. 

Sherlock had tried to tell John, so many times over the years, but he had never been brave enough to really say those three little words, was never courageous enough to admit how John made him feel. And he made him feel so much. More than anyone had ever before in his life.  
The closest Sherlock had ever got was his best man's speech, where he had admitted outright that he loved John in front of dozens of people, but it was a best man's speech and such things were expected after all, so nobody had given it too much thought and Sherlock's little secret stayed safe. There was a split second where Sherlock thought he had seen something shift in John's gaze, that day. Where he thought John might have picked up on the real meaning behind his words, but it was gone before he could really grasp it. Sherlock had racked his brain for days after the wedding, had tried to remember exactly what he thought he might have seen in John's eyes, but he couldn't, for the life of him, grab the exact expression on John's face and so he had tried to forget it instead, buried it in the farthest corner of his mind palace. It was of no use anyway, since John had just married someone else then. 

The next time Sherlock had tried to tell John about his feelings was that moment on the tarmac, right before they wanted to send him back to Eastern Europe. Sherlock had nearly blurted it out right then and there, but then he had remembered that they would probably never see each other again and that it wouldn't have been fair to tell John then. So he had changed his mind literally in the last second and had made a joke instead. One that had made John laugh beautifully, his eyes and lips crinkling at the corners and that was worth the devastation in Sherlock's heart. John would live a happy life without him, with his wife and his, still unborn, daughter and that had been all Sherlock needed to know in that very moment.  
John's feelings were much more important than his own, had been for a long time. He was a dead man walking, so what did it matter when he was already dying inside. He would get over it, he thought, or maybe he wouldn't, but what difference would it make. Mycroft had given him six months and he was never wrong. Sherlock could live in agony for another six months if he knew John would be happy. He had been doing it for years already. 

Sherlock had tried to tell John a few times during the last few months but he just couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.  
At first he thought it was too soon after everything that had happened. Too soon after Mary's death, too soon after his relapse and the ugly scene that had happened between them in Culverton Smith's morgue. Too soon after everything that had happened afterwards.  
Then he thought John was too occupied with his own life, being a single father, raising his little girl, going to the clinic and working with Sherlock on cases in between. John always seemed so tired, mentally and physically exhausted and Sherlock just didn't want to be the one who gave him even more to cope with.  
So he kept his feelings to himself and started to write down the things he didn't dare to say instead. He had written pages and pages of things he wanted to tell John if there ever was a moment when it seemed fitting. Sherlock even had to buy a new notebook specifically for that reason because there were just so many things he kept to himself. 

And things had actually improved during the last few weeks. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson helped John with Rosie as much as they could. John had cut back his hours at the clinic, since their joint work paid them well enough and he seemed much more relaxed lately. Things between them had become more easy the longer they lived together and it almost felt like the good old days now, when they had been completely at ease around each other. 

It had taken them a long time to be so comfortable again. Sherlock had asked John to move back in countless times for almost a year, but John had refused, over and over again. Sherlock had pointed out how very practical it would be if they all lived in Baker Street. Sherlock could look after Rosie when John was at work and Mrs Hudson could help out when there was a case. Sherlock had tried to convince him with the saving of a lot of money for the second rent and a lot of time, because Baker Street was much closer to the surgery, but John had refused nonetheless.  
Sherlock had asked him over and over again for weeks on end but to no avail, until one day John had agreed.  
Sherlock was completely baffled when John had finally said yes and racked his brain for hours afterwards as to why he had agreed on that specific day. The only thing that Sherlock had done differently that time was that he had told John that he wanted them both at Baker Street, that it would make him happy if they would all be living together. Just that, nothing else.  
And he remembered the look on John's face, how his features had gone soft and his eyes had become shiny and how warm the smile felt that he had given Sherlock. Sherlock kept that moment in a little box on the mantle piece of his mind palace. A little box that was made of dark, solid wood with a black iron padlock to keep its contents safe, but on the inside it was lined with dark blue velvet. Just like John, solid and strong on the outside, but with a heart made of velvet. And that little box was well worn around the edges, it's lock opening willingly with the right key, from all the times Sherlock had opened it since that day. 

Sherlock was drawn out of his thoughts by a rustling behind him and was suddenly very aware that John hadn't gone to the bathroom yet, but was walking around the table on Sherlock's side, instead of straight down the corridor like he usually did. And then Sherlock felt a warm hand on his lower back and John leaning over his shoulder to take a look at the pan with the scrambled eggs and Sherlock stopped breathing for a few seconds. John must be standing on tiptoes, Sherlock's brain pointlessly provided.  
“That smells fantastic. Is it my birthday or something,” John asked cheerfully.  
“No,” Sherlock croaked and cleared his throat to try again. “No, just...” he waved a hand through the air and heard John hum appreciatively, way too close to his ear. Sherlock couldn't suppress the slight shiver that ran down his spine at the feeling of John standing so close to him and he desperately hoped that John hadn't noticed.  
“I'm back in a tic,” John told him in a quiet voice, gave his lower back a pat and made his way to the bathroom at last.  
Sherlock waited until he heard the bathroom door close before he turned around to Rosie, who greeted him with another bright smile. Sherlock smiled back and finally remembered how to breathe again.


	2. Chapter 2

John closed the bathroom door behind him carefully, leaned back against it and stood there for a few seconds to just breathe.   
He couldn't get the look on Sherlock's face out of his head, right before he had turned around to the counter when John had hugged Rosie from behind. Sherlock's eyes had been so soft and so full of emotion and he had looked outright happy. John had seen glimpses of that look almost every day for the last few weeks and his chest went wide, every single time he saw it.   
It felt so good, seeing Sherlock like this, relaxed in his own home, plainly enjoying their shared lives after things had been quite tense at the beginning. It had taken them both quite a while to get used to living together again, but under completely different circumstances with Rosie around, neither of them really knowing where their place was in this new arrangement. But now things were just so easy and relaxed between them as if the last four years had never happened. As if all those dreadful incidents had been wiped out of their minds, only leaving faint memories that didn't concern them any longer.   
Over the span of the last five months John had seen Sherlock's transformation from a man who was so very insecure about where his place was in his own flat, in his own life, to the man he was now, happy and content, making breakfast for them every morning as if it was the most fulfilling thing in the world and it made John's heart swell. 

John's favourite thing in the world was coming down the staircase every morning with Rosie on his arm, opening the kitchen door and seeing Sherlock smiling brightly at the two of them.   
He knew that Sherlock was watching him every time he put Rosie in her high chair and kissed or hugged her before he went to the bathroom for his morning routine. And he had seen that look on Sherlock's face so many times now, full of love and affection for Rosie and maybe, just maybe, a bit for him, too.   
Sherlock loved Rosie to pieces, John knew that much. He saw it on his face, plain as day, and when he saw that look in Sherlock's eyes, John's heart beat just a bit faster in his chest.   
He just wished that it would be directed at him as much as it was directed at Rosie. He wished that Sherlock would love him just as much as he loved her. 

John actually thought he might, on that day Sherlock had told him that he wanted them both at Baker Street. When Sherlock had finally stopped talking about the practicality or the money and time saving or all the other numerous reasons he came up with over the span of nearly a year, why it would be so much better if they moved to Baker Street. The day that Sherlock had finally said that he actually wanted them there, that it would make him happy if they moved in, that's when John thought he had glimpsed something in Sherlock's eyes he had never thought possible. A feeling that went much further than being flatmates and colleagues, a feeling that went so much further than being best friends even and he thought maybe, just maybe, there might be a chance for something more, something that John had wanted for so long but had never dared to hope for. He wanted to be with Sherlock and he thought that maybe, after everything they've been through, that Sherlock perhaps wanted that, too. But after they had moved in things were quite complicated and it had taken them all a bit of time to adjust and John had pushed that thought and all his hopes, far back in his mind and had tried his best to make their shared lives work without complicating things any further. 

Now, though, things were so easy and relaxed and they had found a routine that felt so incredibly normal that John could hardly believe that this was his life now. That he lived under the same roof with his best friend and his daughter and it felt as if they were a proper family.   
Still, he hoped that someday it could be even more than that. He hoped that someday they could be partners in every sense of the word, instead of two best friends living together and raising a child. 

And just now in the kitchen it had felt almost palpable. Sherlock had turned back to the counter before John had had a proper chance to see his face, but he still managed to catch a glimpse of the emotion in his eyes. And then Sherlock had been lost in his Mind Palace for three full minutes and John had just stood there, watching him and he so desperately wished he knew what was going on in Sherlock's mind.   
John saw him getting lost in his own mind, smiling into the pan in front of him, barely visible at the beginning but growing wider by the minute until it almost split his beautiful face in two and John's heart swell in his chest and he had felt an urgent need to be close to him. So for the first time ever, he had given in to that need and had walked around the table to step right behind Sherlock, feeling the warmth radiating off his back through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He had leaned over Sherlock's shoulder, put a hand on Sherlock's lower back and he had felt a shudder running down Sherlock's spine and Sherlock's ears had turned crimson. John had felt him standing completely and utterly still, not moving a single muscle, holding his breath for what felt like an eternity and John had almost given in to the urge to just hug him from behind and press a kiss against his shoulder blade.   
Almost, but not quite because he was a coward, too afraid to just grab his best friend by the shoulders and tell him, once and for all, that he was madly in love with him. Too afraid to destroy everything they had worked for those past months. Too afraid that he read too much into Sherlock's affectionate looks and that he would only scare him away instead of drawing him closer. So John had stayed quiet, again, had kept his feelings to himself and kept hoping that one day there would be an opportunity to just tell Sherlock, without the fear of destroying everything they had worked for so hard. 

So John was here instead, standing in their bathroom, not really knowing what to do with himself. He wanted to go out there again, back into the kitchen, back to Sherlock, to find out if Sherlock's reaction a minute ago had actually meant something or if he just wasn't prepared for another human being creeping up behind him when he was lost in his mind palace. If there really could be more to their relationship than just friendship or if he read more into it than it actually was just because he wanted it so much. 

John pushed both of his hands into his hair and closed his eyes, the back of his head hitting the door with a little thud. He tried to calm his heart, that was beating way too fast in his chest.  
He couldn't. He couldn't just walk out there into the kitchen on an ordinary Tuesday morning, about an hour before he had to leave for work and tell Sherlock Holmes that he was in love with him.   
John remembered the day when he had told Sherlock that he considered him his best friend and wanted him as best man. That reaction had scared him enough for a lifetime. If he would go out there now and just tell him that he loved him, Sherlock would probably be stockstill for half an hour and then turn around and leave the flat and never be seen again.   
Nope, not an option. John had to come up with a better idea if he wanted the slightest chance of keeping Sherlock in his life after he told him about his feelings. So there really wasn't much else to do now than going about his morning routine and then head back to the kitchen to have breakfast with his daughter and his adorable lunatic of a best friend.   
John chuckled silently, shook his head and began to move.


	3. Chapter 3

Breakfast that day was different than all the other times before. They usually alternated between helping Rosie and eating their own breakfast while chatting easily about their plans for the day or the latest case or Sherlock's newest experiment. Today though, everything seemed a bit tense. Sherlock couldn't concentrate on anything properly since his mind kept reminding him of John's warm hand at the small of his back and the puffs of warm breath against the shell of his ear and he kept glancing into John's eyes through his lashes constantly, trying not to get caught.   
John, on the other hand, seemed unusually nervous. He dropped things more than once and even spilled Rosie's milk when he wanted to refill her cup and he kept glancing at Sherlock with an odd expression. They didn't even talk about anything except 'could you pass me the milk' and 'can I get the butter, please' and that wasn't at all what Sherlock was used to. Their shared breakfast was usually the most relaxed part of their day and Sherlock didn't like the tension in the room. He didn't like it at all and he needed time to think, so that he could find out what had gone wrong today.   
Fortunately John had to go to work and left right after breakfast, which gave Sherlock enough time to get himself back under control.   
Sherlock brought Rosie to Mrs Hudson for the morning, since he had some paperwork to do at the Yard and then spent the afternoon with Rosie in Regent's Park, allowing him plenty of time to think. 

He was sitting on a park bench at the playground, hands folded in his lap, watching Rosie in the sandbox about ten feet away. She was deeply focused on a little beetle crawling over her left shoe and he thought that maybe, one day, she would make a brilliant scientist, if John allowed him to teach her.   
It was an exceptionally warm afternoon for this time of the year, so his Belstaff was hanging over the backrest of the bench beside him.   
Sitting there, deep in his own thoughts, Sherlock could still feel John's warm breath ghosting over the shell of his ear and the thought alone made him shiver, even now, hours later.   
Sherlock racked his brain for hours as to why John had come to him this morning, why he hadn't gone straight to the bathroom like he usually did. Why he had stood so close and even touched him.   
They never did that, touch each other. Not like that.   
He thought about John's motif or if he himself had done anything differently today that might have caused John's actions but he didn't really come to a satisfying conclusion, no matter how long he maltreated his brain. So he did the only thing he could until he got an opportunity to collect more data, he picked up Rosie from the sandbox and went home to see if things would be back to normal when John came home from work. 

When they reached Baker Street, climbing up the stairs to their flat, Sherlock could already smell the dinner John had apparently cooked while they were away. John was usually too tired to do much more than take a shower after work and spend the rest of the evening playing with Rosie and he was grateful that Sherlock took care of dinner on the days he had to work at the clinic. If John cooked before Sherlock and Rosie were even home that usually meant he was in a very good mood and that made Sherlock smile and climb up the stairs a bit faster with Rosie on his arm.   
“Daddy's home,” Sherlock told Rosie and she beamed at him, clapping her little hands together in front of his face. 

Sherlock opened the door to find John in the kitchen with his back to the door, stirring something or other in the pots on the stove in front of him. The table was set and there was even a bottle of wine open to breathe on the table.   
Exceptionally good mood then, Sherlock smiled.   
Rosie got impatient on Sherlock's arm as soon as she saw John, so Sherlock sat her down on the floor and she ran around the table to greet him.   
“Daddy, daddy!”  
John turned around with a huge smile on his face and lifted her up to give her a bear hug and a kiss on her cheek.   
“Hey sweetheart. How was your day?”  
“Great! We feedin' ducks, daddy.”  
“Oh, that sounds like great fun.”  
“An' we see 'quirrels!”  
“Really? How many did you see?”  
“Thousands, Daddy!” Rosie squeaked, arms flailing wildly in the air.   
“That's a lot of squirrels,” John laughed.   
“An' birds, too!”  
“Did you chase them again?” John asked with a grin on his face.   
“Yep,” Rosie told him.   
“That's my girl,” John chuckled and lifted her high up in the air, which made her giggle and John laugh. John lowered her back to eye level after a few seconds and pressed a kiss to her forehead and Rosie took John's face into her small hands and kissed him right on the nose. 

Sherlock remained standing in the doorframe and couldn't help but smile at the scene playing out in front of him. This was his life now. This was what he was allowed to come home to every evening and if he was very, very lucky it would be like this for the rest of his life. It could be worse, he thought, smiling brighter, much worse.   
John sat Rosie back down on the floor and glanced over, locking eyes with Sherlock and his smile grew impossibly wider, eyes going soft around the edges.   
“Hey you.”  
“Hello John,” Sherlock said, not holding back the affection in his own voice for once. 

Sherlock finally took the time to really look at John. He had showered, like he usually did after work, but unlike all the other evenings his hair was neatly styled today. He was wearing a new dark blue shirt that was just a bit tighter around his chest than the ones he usually wore and matched the colour of his eyes beautifully. He was also wearing those jeans that sat so perfectly around his arse and Sherlock's heartrate sped up a bit. Sherlock looked up to meet his eyes once more and noticed that John had watched him very closely and he felt his own cheeks turning pink. He couldn't really point the expression he saw on John's face, but he saw him swallow visibly and then clearing his throat.   
“Hungry?” John asked, voice just a tiny bit hoarse.   
“Starving.” Sherlock told him and they grinned at each other.   
“Dinner is ready in a minute, could you pour us some wine?”   
“Of course, John.”  
Sherlock did as he was told while John prepared three plates full of pasta in a creamy white sauce that Rosie and Sherlock both loved. 

They spent the next half hour around the kitchen table, eating pasta, sipping wine, chatting easily and listening to Rosie's babbling about ducks and squirrels and everything else they had seen during their walk through the park. Sherlock caught John looking at him several times throug the meal and each time earned him a beautiful, almost shy smile.   
Sherlock felt warm inside.   
Was this what the rest of their lives was going to be like? The three of them being so comfortable around each other, making each other smile, making each other's lives worth living?   
Sherlock could live with that. He wanted more, a lot more, but if this was everything he would ever get for the rest of his life he would die a happy man. 

Later, they cleared the table together while Rosie went into the living room to play in her corner by the sofa. John did the washing up, Sherlock dried the dishes, leaning against the counter beside John, both with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows and the easy chatting and sideways glances into each other's eyes continued. That was until they heard a loud bang and a howl from Rosie, followed by heartbreaking sobbing. They both rushed into the living room to find Rosie crying on the floor, right beside the coffee table, holding her forehead with both hands. John rushed to pick her up while Sherlock went to the fridge to fetch one of the five cool pads he had bought on that day Rosie had made her first steps. When he came back into the living room John had her on his lap on the sofa, soothing her with soft words and tender strokes up and down her back. Rosie had her face pressed into the crook of John's neck and was sobbing heartbreakingly.   
Sherlock brought the cool pad over and John shifted her a bit in his lap, so that Sherlock could press the pad against the blooming bump on her forehead, which made her cry even harder.   
“I'm sorry, Rosie, but that will make it better,” Sherlock told her, not sure if she could even hear him over her crying.   
John kept stroking her back and nuzzled into her blonde curls while Sherlock kept pressing the cool pad to her forehead and slowly, very slowly, the sobbing subsided until it was merely quiet snuffling.   
After a few minutes John pulled Sherlock's hand with the cool pad carefully away to inspect the swelling on Rosie's forehead, which wasn't all that bad, thank God.   
John took her little face in both hands, wiped her tears away with his thumbs and pressed a featherlight kiss on top of the bump and Sherlock's heart nearly exploded in his chest. John was a wonderful father and he was the one allowed to witness it. Rosie looked up into John's eyes and started smiling and John smiled back at her, eyes overflowing with love.   
“Feeling better, sweetie?”  
Rosie nodded, climbed off his lap and went back to play. 

Sherlock sat there, watching Rosie playing, wishing that John would kiss him like that, just once, just to know how it felt so that he could tuck it away in that little wooden box on the mantelpiece of his mind palace and take it out, every time he himself felt bad or hurt or sad. Because a kiss on the forehead from John Watson would light up his whole world. He was sure of that at least. 

Sherlock was drawn out of his thoughts when John slid down from the sofa to join Rosie on the floor. He watched them for a little while, before he moved to the floor, too and the three of them played together until it got late and John stood back up.   
“Time for bed, Rosie,” John told her.   
“Oh no, daddy,” Rosie folded her arms in front of her chest, lower lip forming a pout.   
“Oh yes, sweetheart,” John folded his arms in front of his chest, too, just barely holding back the grin on his face.   
“No,” Rosie said, voice more sulky now.   
“Tomorrow is a new day.”  
John leaned down with a devilish grin and started tickling her belly and that made her stop pouting immediately. She tried to crawl away from him on all fours instead, but John was quicker and picked her up.   
Sherlock got up from the floor as well. He would love to go upstairs with them and help John tuck her into bed but he was never brave enough to actually ask if John would mind. He knew that John loved this part of their day a lot, he had told Sherlock many times with eyes soft and lips tucked upwards into a gentle smile. That time when the stress of the daily routine faded away and he could snuggle together with her on his bed and read her a book or sing her a lullaby and Sherlock just didn't want to disturb their father-daughter time, so he stood there a bit awkward, hands in the pockets of his trousers.  
“Goodnight, Rosie.”  
“Night, Sh'lock.” Rosie smiled and waved her little hand and Sherlock's chest went wide.   
“Do you want a goodnight kiss from Sherlock, sweetie?” John asked her and Sherlock's chest clenched just the tiniest bit.   
“Yes, night kiss,” Rosie said enthusiastically, beaming up at him.   
John looked at him with soft eyes.   
“Go on, then,” John told him quietly and leaned over with Rosie on his hip.   
Sherlock leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on top of her head.   
“Sleep well, Rosie,” he whispered into her soft curls, breathing her in, lingering there just for a moment longer than strictly necessary, reveling in the closeness of the two people he loved most in all this world. And then he felt John's hand on his forearm, squeezing lightly and his breath caught in his lungs. It was only for support, Sherlock told himself but he felt his cheeks turning pink anyway.   
“Erm, Sherlock...,” John started just when Sherlock pulled away and turned away from them before John could see him turning crimson.   
“Good night then,” Sherlock mumbled and walked back into the kitchen quickly, busying himself with the rest of the dishes.   
John didn't move for nearly a minute and the tension in the room seemed palpable but Sherlock couldn't turn back around to look at him. He just couldn't.  
Rosie, god bless her, saved him when she eventually got impatient on John's arm, demanding to be carried upstairs to her favourite plush bumblebee. Sherlock heard John shuffling his feet and clearing his throat awkwardly, before he finally started moving.   
“Right, come on, sweetie,” John said in a strangely hoarse voice before he left the living room, closing the door carefully behind them, to climb up the stairs to the upper bedroom. 

As soon as John had left the room with Rosie on his arm, Sherlock turned around to face the kitchen door, leaning heavily back against the kitchen counter. He pressed both hands to his eyes and exhaled hard, took a deep breath, exhaled again and again.   
It couldn't go on like this. He couldn't freak out every time John Watson came close to him or accidentally touched him. He was a grown man, for heaven's sake, he couldn't turn crimson like a goddamn teenager, every time his best friend smiled at him. He needed to get himself back under control and quickly, before John came back downstairs and found him hyperventilating in the kitchen.   
Sherlock gave himself exactly sixty seconds to calm down and prevent his racing heart from jumping out of his chest, before he busied himself with the rest of the dishes, waiting anxiously for John to come back downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it so far... Tell me what you think?


	4. Chapter 4

John opened the door to his and Rosie's bedroom slowly, hand shaking a little. He sat Rosie down on his own bed and she crawled to the foot of the bed immediately, grabbing the well worn bumblebee Sherlock had given her for her first birthday and hugged it tightly to her chest.  
John left her there and walked over to her bed in the corner. He leaned over the railing, grabbed her pyjamas and clenched his fists tightly around the railing and the soft fabric, head dropping to his chest in exasperation. He closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose, lips forming a tight line.   
He could still feel Sherlock's forearm under his palm, warm and firm and his presence by his side. John had wanted to keep him close when he had kissed Rosie goodnight. He had wanted to ask him to come upstairs with them, so that they could tuck Rosie into bed together, but Sherlock had grown tense under his touch immediately and he had pulled away as if he had been burned and John's heart had grown heavy in his chest.   
John exhaled hard, gripping Rosie's pyjamas and the railing a bit tighter in his fists. 

Why was this so hard?   
Sherlock was his best friend, for God's sake, and they meant so much to each other, he was sure of that. Why couldn't he just tell Sherlock what he wanted? Why was it so hard to ask Sherlock for something that would be perfectly normal for other people? And why did Sherlock tense up every time John came close and touched him, every time John tried to get just a little closer?   
Was it simply because Sherlock wasn't used to another person being close to him, touching him or didn't he like to be touched in general?  
John had never seen him tensing up when Mrs Hudson came too close, when she grabbed his upper arm or hugged him, so it couldn't be physical contact in general.   
Did he just didn't want to be too close to John, then?   
John pushed a hand up into his hair and shook his head. Why was his best friend so goddamn hard to read? John wasn't exactly inexperienced when it came to human contact, but Sherlock was a mystery to him and John had no idea how to solve it. 

“Daddy?” Rosie called, suddenly directly by his side, one arm closing around his knee, the other arm held the bumblebee close to her chest.   
“Right here, sweetie.” He leaned down to pick her up, trying for a smile that didn't reach his eyes.   
“Daddy is sad.” Rosie stated, face very earnest and that made John's heart a bit lighter in his chest.   
“That obvious, hm?” John smiled sadly and walked over to sit on the bed with her.   
“Sh'lock is sad, too,” Rosie told him and that made John look down into her light blue eyes, brows furrowing.   
“You think so?”  
“In the park,” she told him.   
“He was sad when you were in the park today?”  
Rosie nodded with an earnest expression on her little face and John's heart twitched in his chest. “Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll get better. Promised,” John told her, took a deep breath and smiled. 

He cupped her curly head with both hands and pressed a kiss against her forehead, careful not to put too much pressure on the bump and wished that he could just go downstairs and do the same to Sherlock. Maybe that would make them both feel better. He wanted to step right into Sherlock's space, stroke a hand through the curls at the back of his head and lean in to press a kiss against that adorable furrow that appeared above his nose whenever Sherlock was confused or irritated. John wanted his lips to be allowed to linger there until the furrow smoothed out, until Sherlock relaxed under his touch and then he wanted to kiss his mouth. Those beautiful lips and that ridiculous cupid's bow that seemed to be made for solely that purpose.   
And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock wanted that too and would kiss him back and then they could tell each other that they were idiots and then they could laugh it off and kiss some more.   
“Daddy?” Rosie said, a bit more reproachful this time.   
"Right, sorry, sweetheart," John chuckled and finally started changing her into her pyjamas.   
They snuggled together afterwards, John leaning back against the headboard of his bed, legs stretched out in front of him, with Rosie pressed firmly against his side to read her favourite book once and after a little begging from Rosie a second time.   
John tucked Rosie into bed afterwards, pulling the blanket around her little body and stroked a hand through her soft curls and he watched her drifting off almost immediately. 

John stood by her bedside for a little longer, watching his beautiful girl falling asleep with her bumblebee pressed against her cheek and his heart grew heavy again.   
If only they could be a proper family, with Sherlock not only being his best friend and her godfather but his partner and her dad.   
They were so close already, the three of them.   
They lived together, raised Rosie together, shared the majority of their time, breathed the same air. It wasn't such a big step from this to a proper relationship, was it? There really wasn't so much that they didn't already do or share anyway. It was just that tiny little brink that they hadn't crossed yet, but that wasn't so tiny after all, was it?   
Whenever John thought about it, up here in his room all by himself, it felt so easy, as if John simply had to be brave enough to walk over and kiss Sherlock and live happily ever after. But when they were in the same room, breathing the same air it felt like the biggest fucking step in the whole universe. It felt as if they had to surmount the highest mountain and cross the deepest canyon and it simply seemed too much.   
Too much to hope. Too much to dare. Too much to loose. 

But John wanted it so much. He wanted to be with Sherlock so badly that sometimes, when they were in the same room, he could hardly look at him, could barely breathe. He wanted to touch him and kiss him and hold him.   
He wanted Rosie to call him 'daddy' too, because that's what he was.   
John didn't want her to grow up with him always feeling second place. He wanted Sherlock to be as important to her as he himself. And he already was, but he was sure that Sherlock didn't know that.   
He saw it in the way his composure changed every time John came near them. Sherlock was always on the brink of stepping back, of handing her over as soon as he saw John, but John didn't want that. He wanted Sherlock to be absolutely sure about his place in Rosie's life and in his life, too.   
John didn't want to be more important to her. He wanted them to be equal. And he needed to tell Sherlock, because Sherlock could deduce almost everything and anything within the blink of an eye if it concerned other people, but he was absolutely clueless if it concerned himself.   
So John needed to be brave enough for once and go and tell him that John wanted him to be her father. And maybe, just maybe, he would be brave enough to tell him that he wanted him to be everything. 

John looked at his beautiful daughter one last time, who had started snoring silently with her little mouth just slightly open. He gave her a last soft kiss on the forehead before he took a deep breath and made his way back down the stairs to face the man he loved.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had just finished tidying up the kitchen when he heard John's footsteps on the stairs. Although that wasn't quite true, because he had tidied up the living room and Rosie's corner by the sofa and a few other things in-between, but he pretended that he was just stowing away the last few dishes into the cupboard above the sink.   
John had taken an unusual long time to tuck Rosie into bed and Sherlock had grown more and more uneasy the longer it had taken. He was on the verge of going upstairs to check on them several times, fearing that Rosie's little accident earlier might have been worse than they thought in the first place, but then he had stopped himself. John might not want an intruder on their nightly ritual and he was perfectly capable to care for his daughter on his own. He always tucked her into bed alone and Sherlock just didn't want to interrupt their father-daughter time. So he stayed downstairs, busying himself with chores to distract himself from the numerous thoughts that were running wild in his own head since John had touched him again, until he finally heard John opening the door to the kitchen. 

“Is she alright?” Sherlock asked immediately, still worried.   
“Yeah, all good. Just wanted to stay until she was asleep and make sure she's fine,” John smiled at him, but it looked strained somehow.   
“Oh... yes, of course.”  
“Erm,“ John cleared his throat, ”another glass of wine?” he asked with his brows drawn up.   
“Yes..., alright.”   
Sherlock poured them each another glass and settled down in one of the kitchen chairs. John took the chair diagonally across from him and they clinked their glasses a bit awkwardly.   
And then there was a long silence.   
Sherlock's gaze was fixed on his own glass, but every now and then he glanced sideways at John and Sherlock saw him looking back with an odd expression, eyes strangely intense. 

“You love her, don't you?” John suddenly broke the silence, but his voice was soft.   
Sherlock looked up into John's dark blue eyes and then back down at his own hands around the stem of the wine glass and smiled to himself.   
“She's yours, John. How could I not?” Sherlock said quietly and then he noticed a split second too late what those words were implying and drew in a sharp breath, that was more a gasp when his heart clenched in his chest.  
“I, I mean, she... I...” Sherlock stammered without even knowing what he wanted to say.   
“She loves you, too, you know?” John told him, still in that unusually soft voice and then Sherlock felt a warm hand on his bare forearm for the second time that night, squeezing lightly and his world tilted on its axis.   
Sherlock swallowed hard, held his breath, let it go shakily. 

John was here, right beside him and he was relaxed and he was touching Sherlock's arm and he was talking about love and was this it?   
Was this the moment Sherlock had been waiting for all those years? Was this his chance to tell John, once and for all?   
There had been something in the air all day long, from John's unusual behavior in the morning, to John cooking dinner for them and meeting Sherlock with this affectionate smile, to John's hand on his forearm when he had kissed Rosie goodnight and the strange tension in the air when Sherlock had rushed away from them.   
Something had been shifting all day, something was somehow different between them.   
This could be his one and only chance.   
If only he would be brave enough, if only he could get his mouth saying the right words, the words that mattered, the ones that made sense instead of that immense chaos that were his thoughts just now.   
Sherlock's chest felt too tight, as if his lungs suddenly weren't capable of absorbing enough oxygen and the wine made him feel dizzy on top of everything and he couldn't breathe. 

”Sherlock, hey, it's alright, breathe,” John said with a little huff, leaning forward, right into Sherlock's space, squeezing his forearm again and again.   
Sherlock exhaled hard, closing his eyes for a moment. He held the stem of his wine glass tighter and forced himself to open his eyes and, finally, talk.   
“It's not that, John. There's... something else. Something I should have told you long ago.”   
He made a long pause to gather some confidence, while John sat patiently beside him, squeezing his forearm a little harder, his thumb moving along Sherlock's skin in a soothing manner.   
“What is it?” This soft voice again.   
Why was John's voice so soft today?   
John never talked to him like that, this was reserved for Rosie and her alone.   
Sherlock took another breath.   
“It's, not about Rosie, it's... someone else...,” Sherlock whispered and then there was silence. Complete and utter silence for a full minute and Sherlock didn't dare to look up into John's eyes.   
“Oh,” John breathed. And then again, but in a strangely strangled voice this time. “Oh.”  
John withdrew his hand from Sherlock's forearm slowly and Sherlock missed the warmth of it already. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the wine glass in his hands while he went on.   
“I should have said something and believe me, John, I've tried so many times.”  
Sherlock took another deep breath.   
“But I was never brave enough... I was... afraid... I guess?”  
“Sherlock, it's fine. You don't have to tell me anything. You don't owe me any explanation.” John's soft voice was gone, replaced by something that didn't sound like John's voice at all, but that didn't matter now, because Sherlock needed to get this off his chest before all his courage evaporated.   
“Yes, John. I do.”   
Sherlock finally gathered enough courage to look up at John and found him leaning back in his chair as far as he could get and what he saw in John's eyes nearly choked him. John was staring straight ahead, eyes fixed somewhere on the table in front of him and he looked sad and pained, as if he wanted to bolt from the room any second now and there was something else Sherlock couldn't grasp right away.  
John looked... betrayed?

Why did he look like that when Sherlock finally wanted to tell him that he loved him? Had loved him for so long that he couldn't imagine ever living without John in his life.   
Sherlock's heart was pounding rapidly in his chest and for a few seconds everything went blank.   
“John?” Sherlock whispered and John startled on his chair.   
“Sorry,” John muttered, clearing his throat and then he cleared it once more when his voice didn't seem to work right away.   
“Sorry, I... You wanted to tell me something and I'm your best friend, so I'm supposed to listen, right? Sorry.”  
Sherlock was confused, not knowing what to say to this, so John went on after another moment of confused silence.   
“So..., who is she?” John asked in a strained voice.   
“What?”  
“It's Irene Adler, isn't it?”  
“What? No!” Sherlock sighed in exasperation, “John, how many times... I'm not... I don't... women aren't...”  
“Oh..., it's a bloke?” John's eyes went wide and he looked even more pained than before but he soldiered on. “Who is he then? Do I know him?”  
“Umm...” Sherlock tilted his head, brows furrowing on their own volition. 

What the hell was happening here?  
They had just spent a wonderful evening together but somehow everything had gone to hell in the course of two minutes. Where had it gone from Sherlock wanting to tell John about his feelings to John looking as if he needed to vomit any second now? 

John pushed his chair back forcefully, the legs of the chair making ugly scratching noises on the hardwood floor and he got up, pacing around the table and into the living room.   
“Just tell me, alright, get it over with.”  
“What?” Sherlock really didn't understand what was happening here.   
“It's fine, Sherlock, I'm sorry. You wanted to tell me about someone, so please do. I just wished you would have done it sooner.”  
“Sooner?”  
“Yeah, before you've urged me to move back in here with Rosie in tow.”  
“Urged you.” Sherlock was completely dumbfounded.   
“I mean, if you want us to move out because you've met someone else, that's all right. I just wished you would have made up your mind earlier, before we built our whole life around you and this bloody...” John gestured wildly with one arm around the flat.   
“Why would I want you to move out?”   
John stared at him with a pained expression. Sherlock got up from his chair, too now, walking around the table slowly, carefully, until they stood opposite each other, an arm's length away, in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. He tilted his head a little, brows furrowing, eyes narrowing.   
Sherlock needed to find out what was going on here, what had gone wrong and where and he needed to do it fast. 

Sherlock scanned John's body from head to toe thoroughly.   
John was completely tense, both fists clenching and unclenching by his sides, chest heaving with the sheer effort of breathing and there was this vein pulsating on his forehead that only came out when John was incredibly strained or angry. -- So... angry then.   
There were tears in John's eyes, but he desperately tried to suppress them. And John had most certainly just noticed that Sherlock had seen his tears because he cast his eyes down to the floor suddenly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.   
Sherlock looked at him once more, playing the scenes of today in his head on double speed. From John's hand on his lower back this morning, to his bright smile when they came home from the park, to John's hand on his forearm before he brought Rosie upstairs, to his soft voice and his hand on Sherlock's forearm mere minutes ago. -- All of this said... affection.   
John staying upstairs for much longer than usual which he only ever did when he wanted to be alone for a while. -- So there was something John needed to think about.   
Sherlock telling him that there was something he wanted to say, someone he wanted to tell him about, and then John's expression had turned from affection to... what?   
Anger? No.   
Exasperation? Close, but not quite...   
Something... deeper... something... closer to his heart. -- Jealousy!   
John was jealous. He was jealous when Sherlock had told him about someone in his life.   
Only logical conclusion: John himself wanted to be that someone and was under the misconception that Sherlock was talking about someone else entirely. 

Sherlock snapped out of his mind palace, scanning John's body language one last time to be absolutely sure and then he stepped right into John's space, gripped John's shoulders with both hands so that he couldn't run away and then Sherlock leaned down, before his nerves got the better of him and their lips would meet in three, two... 

John froze in front of him and then he shoved Sherlock away forcefully with both hands on his chest.   
“What are you doing, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock's chest clenched violently, ears starting to ring while he stumbled backwards.   
“What?”  
”What the hell was that? I don't need to be mollycoddled, I'm a grown man!” John almost shouted at him.   
“I... I thought you... that we...” Sherlock felt ice cold and way too hot at the same time. He could feel his cheeks turning crimson and his heart was thumping like thunderclaps in his ears. He stumbled further backwards.   
Wrong. WRONG! 

Something had gone terribly wrong. He had made a mistake. Somewhere during his deduction he had taken a wrong turn and had come to the wrong conclusion.   
John was staring at him furiously, fists clenched by his sides once more.   
“I'm sorry,” Sherlock mumbled and stumbled backwards through the kitchen, bumping into chairs and the fridge in the process.   
“I miscalculated,” Sherlock said and turned around so that he didn't need to look into John's furious eyes any longer.   
“You miscalculated?” John's voice sounded foreign.   
“I'm sorry, forgive me,” he whispered, barely audible to his own ears.   
Sherlock rushed down the corridor, pushed the door to his bedroom open and slammed it shut behind him, one hand clenching in his curls while tears started burning in his eyes.   
What had he done? What the hell had he done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just tell you this: I am SO SORRY!


	6. Chapter 6

John stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, utterly bewildered, staring at Sherlock's closed bedroom door. He could still hear the bang of the slammed door resonating in his ears and he didn't understand.   
What the hell had just happened?   
He had come downstairs with the firm intention of telling Sherlock how important he was in their life, how much he was loved by Rosie and maybe, just maybe, how much John loved him, too. And that had somehow ended with him yelling at Sherlock and with Sherlock barricading himself in his room.   
John's ears were ringing, his heart racing in his chest. What the hell was that? 

Had he really gotten it all wrong? All of Sherlock's little signals over the past few months? His warm smiles and affectionate gazes, his insecurity about his place in their life when he had initially been the most self-absorbed person John had ever met.   
Sherlock practically moulding his whole life around John and Rosie, taking care of her whenever the need arose and being there for John, too, whenever John needed him.   
Sherlock had never done anything like that for anyone else. Had never placed someone elses needs above his own, but he had done it for John so many times over the last years, although it had taken John a ridiculous amount of time to realize that and he did it for Rosie all the time nowadays.   
All of this pointed to affection. Deep and unrestrained affection towards Rosie and towards John, too. John had thought that Sherlock wanted them both in his life, more than anything else, actually. Had he really misunderstood so thoroughly? 

John pushed a hand into his hair, clenching his fingers into a tight fist around the too long strands.   
Sherlock had wanted to tell him about someone tonight, someone that was neither Rosie nor John. When on earth had Sherlock met someone and fell in love with that person that John hadn't even noticed any of it?  
Had he been in love all along and John had just been too blind or ignorant to see? Too absorbed in his own life that he hadn't seen that Sherlock had fallen in love? Had Sherlock ever tried to tell him before and John just hadn't been listening?   
John tried to remember if there had ever been an attempt from Sherlock's side to tell him about his feelings for another person.   
There was 'the woman', but Sherlock had always denied that he was interested in her and he had said so again tonight. But other than that John couldn't remember a single time when Sherlock had tried to tell him about anything like that.   
It must have taken him a lot of courage to even start that conversation tonight. And now that Sherlock had tried to talk about something fundamental like that, John had acted as if he was the worst possible friend in the universe.

John walked over to his chair beside the mantle, sitting down heavily with an exasperated sigh. He leaned forward with both elbows on his knees, pressing his palms against his closed eyelids and just tried to breathe... again... for the third time that day.  
God, what did Sherlock do to him? 

John thought about the last few months, where Sherlock had spent every waking hour that he wasn't working either with Rosie or with John or with the both of them. How Sherlock had taken up the habit of telling John each and every morning at breakfast about his plans for the day, making sure that John knew when he went where and when he would be back at home. Always planning his day around John's and Rosie's needs and that just didn't fit with Sherlock meeting someone else and falling in love.   
Something was wrong here, something that John didn't understand, but it was essential that he understood, because he needed to fix this situation. He needed to go and talk to Sherlock and make things right again, no matter what. 

John tried to recall the events of the evening to find out what exactly had just happened, where they had taken a wrong turn and everything had gone to hell.   
Things had been different all day, more tense than usually and maybe that was John's fault because he had acted different today. He had never touched Sherlock as often as today and that had seemed to catch him off guard from the first time this morning in the kitchen.   
And when he had told Sherlock how much Rosie loved him?   
Sherlock had practically stumbled over the words he wanted to say, had hardly breathed, had looked as if he was on the brink of a panic attack... And John had tried to calm him down and had squeezed his forearm, with Sherlock's skin warm and soft under his touch, but that had made Sherlock even more nervous.  
Was it because Sherlock had decided that today, of all days, he wanted to tell John about the other person in his life and was now frightened to do so after John had shown his affection so openly? 

‘It's about someone else,’ Sherlock had said and that he had tried to tell John many times and then something in John's mind had snapped and he got angrier by the second and he had even started yelling at Sherlock at some point and Sherlock had gone utterly still in front of him. 

Sherlock had stared at him with this scrutinizing look, eyes scanning the smallest details, clearly deducing him and John had been terrified that Sherlock would see right through him, would see the tears shining in his eyes and would see that John was helplessly in love with him and how could he let that happen when Sherlock was just telling him about someone else in his life.   
He just couldn't, so he had avoided Sherlock's piercing gaze, had stared straight at the floor in front of his feet instead and he had desperately tried to look furious so that Sherlock wouldn't be able to deduce the real meaning behind John's reaction. So that he wouldn't see that John desperately wanted to be that someone.   
John had tuned out everything, every sound in the room, every motion around him, had concentrated on his own racing heartbeat and had desperately tried to get his frantic breathing under control... until Sherlock had startled him when he had stepped right into his space and had grabbed him by the shoulders to hug him and John just couldn't let that happen, because then he would have probably done something immensely stupid like trying to kiss Sherlock and how would that have ended?   
So John had pushed him away with as much force as he could gather, had stared him down and suddenly something had shattered in Sherlock's eyes.   
John had seen it, clear as day.   
Sherlock had looked downright terrified when John had pushed him away... and then he had babbled something about miscalculation and he had apologized and run away to lock himself up in his bedroom.   
John had caught a last glimpse of Sherlock's face right before he had turned away and he had looked... heartbroken... completely and utterly heartbroken and there had been tears flooding his eyes. 

Why had he looked like that? Just because John didn't want to hear about his love interest, or because he didn't want to be comforted like a child? That seemed incredibly strange, even for Sherlock's standards. There must have been something else, something John was missing, something he didn't see. 

And then it hit him, with the force of a full up bus. Sherlock's words crashed back into his memory.   
_She's yours, John. How could I not?_  
In this deep, soft voice made of pure velvet that sometimes made John shiver just from listening to it. Those words were echoing in John's mind, loud and clear.   
_She's yours, John. How could I not?_  
That were his exact words and that had been the moment Sherlock had started panicking.   
What exactly was he implying?   
He loved Rosie because she was _John's_ daughter... that sounded a hell of a lot like a... confession?   
John stared at the floor in front of him with unseeing eyes, heart pounding in his chest. Sherlock's words repeating themselves in an endless loop. 

Could the person Sherlock wanted to tell him about... Was it himself?   
John shook his head in disbelief, one hand coming up to cover his eyes and he tried to recall the exact situation before he had pushed Sherlock away and something nagged at the back of his head, something... something about the way Sherlock had held him by the shoulders and had leaned down...   
If anyone else had leaned down like that John had probably assumed that he wanted to... kiss him?   
And then Sherlock had said that he had miscalculated and he had apologized... for what exactly? Sherlock hadn't done anything unusual... except when he had wanted to...   
A hysteric laugh bubbled up, deep down from John's guts.   
God, could that really be? Had Sherlock actually tried to kiss him? Was John really such an idiot?  
Did Sherlock want to kiss him and John had pushed him away instead of pulling him closer? Was he such a moron that he couldn't distinguish an attempt to comfort from an attempt to kiss? 

John looked up, staring at Sherlock's empty chair in front of him and his chest clenched.   
John had hurt him tonight, hurt him badly. What was Sherlock thinking, there alone in his bedroom instead of out here, in his armchair, where he usually was at that time of the evening?   
John needed to go to him and apologize and ask him who it was Sherlock wanted to tell him about and he needed to tell him that it was alright if it was someone else, someone that wasn't John, because that's what best friends did.   
But if he was right, if Sherlock had actually been talking about John... then he needed to kiss him, badly. John needed to hold him and hug him and kiss him and... and what was he even doing here, sitting in his armchair when Sherlock was just a few steps away?

John got up from his chair and turned to the kitchen, stared at Sherlock's closed bedroom door, fear creeping up his spine. He closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath before he made his way through the kitchen and further down the corridor with careful steps. He stopped right in front of Sherlock's door, took another deep breath before he straightened his spine and nodded briefly. John's hand came up as if on autopilot, knocked at the door, once, twice. No answer.   
“Sherlock?” His voice sounded strained, even to his own ears.   
No answer.   
“Sherlock, please, can I talk to you?” John heard the pleading tone in his own voice.   
Still no answer.   
He leaned his forehead against the door, eyes closing, breathing. He needed to be brave, just this once. He owed Sherlock that much.   
“You didn't miscalculate,” he murmured into the wooden surface in front of his face, not sure if Sherlock could even hear him through the closed door. 

Silence on the other side, but then there were footsteps, slow, careful. By the sound of it Sherlock had been standing at the window, as far away from John as he could possibly get while he was in the flat. Sherlock came closer now, stopped a few feet away from the door.   
“What?” John heard him say and his voice sounded terribly rough, even with the door separating them.   
John pulled back from the door, standing straighter.   
“You didn't miscalculate.” His voice sounded stronger now. Good, he thought, that's good.   
Silence, for another long moment, then footsteps again, stopping right on the other side of the door.   
John saw the doorknob turning. The door opened achingly slow until a dim shimmer of light came shining through the gap. Sherlock's curls appeared in the doorway, then his profile and then he looked up, right into John's eyes and John's heart clenched.   
There were tears in Sherlock's beautiful eyes, running freely down his cheeks. So many tears.   
John's mouth pressed into a tight line, tears stinging behind his own eyes now, too. 

“I'm an idiot, right?” asked John, voice shaking.   
Sherlock looked at him with huge eyes, full of sadness, full of despair.   
“The person you wanted to tell me about...,“ John lowered his eyes to the floor in front of him, took a deep breath, looked back up, locking eyes with Sherlock again, ”...is it me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we've almost made it.  
> Next time, fluff and smut and some more tooth rotting fluff, I promise!  
> And I hope you will all be reconciled then...  
> And just as I'm writing this note, my favourite radio station is playing 'In case you didn't know'... I take that as a good sign!
> 
> Thank you to each and every one of you for leaving kudos and comments on this fic, I love you all to pieces! There's nothing better in this world for my little writer's heart than waking up in the morning to several new lovely comments and kudos, even when you tell me that I made your heart ache, so please don't stop.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of you have been waiting for ages for this last chapter and I'm sorry that it took so long, but let me just tell you this, there are 7k words of fluff and smut coming (no pun intended), oh and more tooth rotting fluff and writing that just took a bit of time.  
> Just so you're not confused, this chapter starts shortly before John knocks at Sherlock's door and will have changing POVs.  
> Enjoy!

Sherlock stood in front of the window of his bedroom, eyes pressed shut, forehead leaning heavily against the cool glass. There was a lump in his stomach that made him feel nauseous and he desperately tried to stop the tears from falling.  
Sherlock pressed both hands hard against his chest. He could still feel the imprints of John's palms on his skin, where he had pushed him away forcefully. It felt as if his skin had been burned by John's touch, as if the pain of John's rejection was imprinted right above his heart. It felt as if it would never heal again. 

Sherlock racked his brain as to where he had made a mistake, where his deductions had gone wrong, but he couldn't, for the life of him, find the exact moment where his conclusions had taken that fatal turn.  
He was able to deduce anyone and anything in a matter of seconds and he was hardly ever wrong, but he had never been able to deduce John that way. He could easily deduce the obvious stuff about him, the things that everyone with eyes would be able to see, but he had never been able to deduce John's heart that way.  
What on earth had made him think he could start today, of all days?  
He sighed heavily, pressing his hands harder against his chest. It was useless now anyway. He had made a mistake, most certainly the biggest mistake ever and he was going to regret it for the rest of his goddamn life. 

‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.’  
He could hear Mycroft's voice, loud and clear. And really, he should have known. Mycroft had tried to warn him so many times, ever since he was a small child and especially since John had become an essential part of his life, but he had never, ever listened to what Mycroft had said, on principle.  
It would have spared him a lot of pain, though. 

Sherlock clenched his hand into a tight fist and slammed it against the window, causing the thin glass to tremble.  
What will John do once he realizes that Sherlock hadn't tried to mollycoddle him, but had actually tried to kiss him, there in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen?  
Will he laugh it off, as something Sherlock had just wanted to do in the heat of the moment?  
Will he ignore the topic entirely and never talk about it ever again?  
Will he be angry, furious even?  
Will he feel betrayed and take Rosie, first thing in the morning and walk out of Sherlock's life and never come back? 

Sherlock felt his own chest heaving, embarrassing noises emerging from his throat, somewhere between sobs and whimpers and his body was trembling with the sheer effort of keeping all the emotions inside. 

John had been in the living room for ages now and Sherlock had no idea what he did out there for so long. Why it took him so long to figure out what Sherlock had really wanted to do and to decide what he was going to do about it.  
He almost wished that John would just come and knock at his door and tell Sherlock that he was leaving for good. At least that would spare him the embarrassment of awkward conversations about failed attempts of kissing his best friend.  
Sherlock sniffed and wiped the back of his hand over his wet eyes, but the tears just didn't want to stop falling.  
God, he was pathetic.  
He didn't know what had gotten into him. He knew quite well that he would never have what he craved so much, that John would never want him that way. Sherlock didn't understand why he thought that things might have changed between them, why he thought that John would ever change his mind about it. 

And then he heard them, slow footsteps in the kitchen and he went completely and utterly still, trying to anticipate what was going to happen by the sound of John's steps on the hardwood floor.  
The footsteps were approaching achingly slow and Sherlock's heartbeat sped up, beating so loudly in his chest that he was afraid John might be able to hear it, even through the closed bedroom door.  
He heard John stop right outside his door. Seconds ticked by.  
Then a knock, once, twice, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to answer.  
‘Sherlock?’ in a careful tone and Sherlock pressed his forehead harder against the window.  
‘Sherlock, please, can I talk to you?’ In John's beautiful voice, muted through the bedroom door.  
And then Sherlock heard something that didn't make any sense at all and he wasn't even sure that he had heard correctly because John's voice was so incredibly silent and muffled through the door.  
‘You didn't miscalculate.’  
Sherlock turned around slowly, brows furrowing on their own volition, chest clenching so hard he could barely breathe. He must have misheard so he walked slowly, so very slowly, over to the door on numb legs.  
“What?” His own voice was shaking.  
‘You didn't miscalculate,’ John said again, voice more confident than before and something loosened in Sherlock's chest, if only just a little bit.  
Sherlock took those last few steps to the door, reached out a trembling hand. He grabbed the doorknob in a loose grip and opened the door slowly. He could see John's socked feet out of the corner of his eye and he gathered all the courage he could find to look up into those dark blue eyes. As soon as their eyes met John's mouth pressed into a tight line, but his eyes were soft and glistening.  
Sherlock felt his own tears still falling down his cheeks in hot streams but he couldn't bring himself to wipe them away, it didn't matter anymore. 

“I'm an idiot, right?” asked John and Sherlock swallowed hard. His throat was so tight he could hardly breathe, let alone talk so he just looked at John, eyelids blinking rapidly.  
“The person you wanted to tell me about...“ John lowered his eyes to the floor in front of him, took a deep breath, looked back up, locking eyes with Sherlock again, ”...is it me?”

Sherlock's heart twitched in his chest and he nearly gasped, but somehow managed not to. He swallowed, looked down at John's feet on the hardwood floor once more, looked back up.  
“What makes you think that?” Sherlock tried to sound indifferent, but he heard the insecurity in his own voice and the tears in his eyes said more than all the words he could utter, anyway.  
John puffed through his nose.  
“Fair enough,” he said. 

***

John looked down at the floor, clenched his left hand into a fist, let loose. Sherlock wouldn't make this easy for him and he had every right not to, because Sherlock had been the one who had finally found the courage to talk about the things they had kept hidden for so long and John had pushed him away because his jealousy, once again, had got the better of him. He had hurt Sherlock tonight, John could see it in his face, plain as day, so it was John's turn to be the brave one.  
He took a deep breath before he looked back up to meet Sherlock's eyes once more and his heart clenched when he saw the sorrow there.  
”After I tucked Rosie into bed...,“ John cleared his throat because his chest felt so tight he could hardly talk, ”... I came down here with the firm intention of telling you something. Something important... two things actually, but I wasn't so sure about the second one.”  
Sherlock just stood there in front of him with huge eyes and waited. His blue-green eyes were shining wet from the tears that he still hadn't wiped away and it broke John's heart to see him like this.  
John clenched his fist once more, gathering courage.  
“I came down to tell you how much Rosie loves you and that she needs you in her life,” he said quietly.  
“She already has me, John.”  
“Yes, she has,“ John smiled sadly, ”but I want you to be more than just a babysitter, Sherlock.”  
“I'm her godfather.” Sherlock looked confused, this adorable little furrow forming above his nose.  
“Yes, you are, but...,“ John took a shaky breath before he continued, ”but... I want you to be more than that, Sherlock... so much more.” John looked at him intently. ”I want you to be her father, Sherlock,” he said softly.  
John looked at him with pleading eyes, hoping that Sherlock would somehow understand what he actually wanted to say, but the furrow between Sherlock's eyes only grew deeper.  
“ _You_ are her father,” Sherlock said.  
“Yes,“ John's lips twitched upwards into a half smile, ”but I want you to be her father, too.”  
“I... don't understand...”  
“Yeah, you probably don't,” John said sadly.  
“I don't know what you're expecting, John. As soon as you'll find someone else...”  
“No, Sherlock,“ John shook his head forcefully, ”there will be no one else, never again.”  
“But...”  
John took a careful step forward, reached out slowly and took Sherlock's hand in his own. Sherlock stared down at their joined hands and stared and stared, apparently incapable of tearing his eyes away.  
“You said...,“ Sherlock cleared his throat, ”... you said you wanted to tell me two things,” John heard him finally say with so much insecurity in his beautiful voice.  
“Yes,” John breathed and held Sherlock's hand a bit tighter in his own, “yes, I did... I do.”  
John cleared his throat to get his attention, but Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on their joined hands as if he was afraid that they would vanish any second now.  
“Could you look at me?” asked John carefully.  
Sherlock didn't move his head, but he glanced up at John through his lashes, hope in his eyes and the knot in John's chest loosened a bit.  
“I've no idea how to actually do this,” John huffed and Sherlock's brows furrowed once more.  
“Do what?”  
“Listen, Sherlock, you... you're the most important person in my life and...”  
“No, I'm not. That's Rosie,” Sherlock interrupted him.  
John huffed a laugh.  
“Yeah, you're probably right, but she is my daughter and that's entirely different to what you are, what I want you to be.”  
John swallowed.  
“The second thing I wanted to tell you tonight...” John looked up at Sherlock, into those bright blue eyes and he wanted to melt right then and there, “... is... that Rosie isn't the only Watson who loves you.”

***

Sherlock's heart missed a beat in his chest, but he tried to keep his expression as neutral as humanly possible. Wrong conclusions, he reminded himself, enough of them tonight. Not again.  
“Harry? John, I don't think that her feelings go quite so deep. She might tolerate me at best, since I keep up with her annoying brother, but other than that... ”  
“I'm talking about myself, you git,” John huffed but his eyes were shining.  
“Oh,” Sherlock breathed.  
John pulled Sherlock's hand close to his chest and held it there.  
“Before... in the... in the living room...,” John scratched his eyebrow with his index finger, “erm...,” he looked at Sherlock and gave him a short nod, “... did you... want to... kiss me?”  
Sherlock stared at him for a long time, scanning every line on John's face. He stared into his beautiful eyes that were a bit watery. He stared at the furrows on John's forehead that were getting deeper the longer Sherlock looked at them. Sherlock traced the firm line of John's jaw with his eyes, his thin lips, that were pressed into a tight line.  
Sherlock needed to be absolutely sure, this time. He couldn't make the same mistake twice. He felt his own hand trembling where it was pressed against John's chest and he could feel John's heart beating frantically and that made his own heart calm down a little bit. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sherlock gave John a tiny nod and the air rushed out of John's lungs.  
“Would you... still want to? Kiss me, that is?” John's voice was very quiet now and his eyes were full of hope and insecurity at the same time.  
Sherlock nodded slowly.  
John's eyes started shining brighter when he took that last little step to close the gap between them.  
Sherlock saw him reaching up with his free hand. He blinked and the next thing he knew was that John's warm hand was pressing softly against his wet cheek. John's thumb brushed along his cheekbone, wiping away the tears with gentle strokes.  
“Come here,” John said softly, leaning up on tiptoes, grabbing Sherlock's hand a bit tighter in his own where it was still pressed against his chest and Sherlock could feel John's heart thumping violently in his chest.  
And then, suddenly, there were soft lips brushing against his own and a little whimper escaped his throat. Sherlock wanted to pull back immediately, embarrassed with himself, but John, wonderful John, made an embarrassing noise of his own and slipped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck to pull him closer instead of pushing him away. John's other hand let go of Sherlock's, where they were trapped between their bodies and slipped around Sherlock's waist, pulling him flush against John's chest.  
John slowly, deliberately, deepened the kiss and Sherlock could taste the wine they had earlier on his lips and he could smell John's shampoo from the shower he had taken after work and there was also his aftershave and something uniquely John. There was the feeling of John's soft lips against his own and John's hand against his neck and John's chest pressing against his own and Sherlock's brain started running on overdrive, taking in all the different impressions and trying to file them away for further examination until John began stroking one hand through the curls at the back of Sherlock's head and Sherlock's brain finally came to a screeching halt and all he registered was that John was kissing him and it was the most extraordinary thing he had ever felt.  
Sherlock finally managed to close his own arms around John's shoulders, pulling him closer still.  
They kissed and kissed, just a press of lips on lips until Sherlock felt John's tongue tracing his lower lip and he made another embarrassing sound that didn't matter anymore because he opened his mouth to let John in and then there was John's tongue caressing his own and 'Oh my God'.  
John started walking him backwards into the bedroom until he was able to kick the door shut behind him and then Sherlock walked forwards, without really recognizing that he did, until John's head hit the closed door with a thump and they pulled apart gasping, chests heaving. 

Sherlock's eyes were closed when he heard his own name in a soft whisper. He opened them to find John's dark blue eyes staring back at him, pupils blown wide.  
“Sherlock,” John whispered again and he cupped Sherlock's face with both hands. Sherlock closed his eyes once more, memorizing the exact feeling of John's warm palms against his skin.  
“John,” he whispered and then John's lips were back on his own and Sherlock pressed his full body weight against John, trapping him between his own body and the door, but John didn't seem to mind because he pressed back just as much, both hands stroking up into Sherlock's curls and the kiss became passionate in a heartbeat until they were both panting into each other's mouths.  
John drew back a little to kiss the corner of Sherlock's mouth, along his jaw and at the spot right below Sherlock's ear and Sherlock's knees nearly gave in. He clenched both hands in the shirt at John's back and simply held on.  
He could barely breathe, couldn't move, couldn't let go of John's shirt either because if he did he might just fall to the ground and never be able to get up again. He felt his breathing getting ragged and his head felt dizzy and all he could do was clench his hands harder in John's shirt. 

***

John felt Sherlock getting tense in his arms, hands clenching tightly in the fabric of his shirt and John's brain eventually got enough oxygen to remember that Sherlock might be a bit out of his depth here. He had never seen Sherlock with anyone else since they have known each other, so it had probably been a while for him. So John tried to restrain himself, tried to take it slow, when everything he really wanted to do was ripping Sherlock's clothes off right then and there.  
He softened the kisses he placed on Sherlock's neck, kissed back up along his jaw to his cheeks before he pulled back slowly, looking at Sherlock, who kept his eyes shut tightly. John brought his hands, that had been clenched in Sherlock's hair, back down to cup his face and brushed his lips gently over Sherlock's until he felt the grip in his shirt loosening a bit and Sherlock's breathing evening out.  
John stroked both thumbs along Sherlock's cheekbones and slowly deepened the kiss once more and Sherlock sighed in his arms and finally relaxed enough to unclench his hands, stroking up and down John's back on top of his shirt so very slowly.  
John slid his hands down along Sherlock's long, pale neck, slowly, so very slowly, until he reached the top button of Sherlock's shirt. He looked up into Sherlock's face and found his eyes still closed.  
“Sherlock?” John whispered.  
Sherlock looked at him then, eyes a bit out of focus.  
“Is that okay?” John tucked lightly on Sherlock's shirt button.  
“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, biting his lower lip nervously. John opened the first button and then another and another, all the while looking into Sherlock's beautiful eyes, that seemed to get darker with every button John opened, until there wasn't much left than pulling Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers and pushing the fabric off his shoulders. It landed on the floor behind him with a soft rustling noise. John leaned forward to press a soft kiss against Sherlock's bare collar bone and pulled him close against his own body, arms coming around his torso to hold him close, just feeling the warmth of him. They just stood there for a while, holding each other in a tight grip, breathing together, until John couldn't take it any longer. He wanted nothing more than feeling Sherlock's touch on his naked skin so he pressed a kiss against Sherlock's neck and murmured,  
“I know you like this new shirt, but it really needs to come off, rather sooner than later.”  
Sherlock pulled back to look him in the eyes, brows furrowed in confusion.  
“How do you know I like that shirt?”  
“That look you've given me in the kitchen when you came home? With your eyes roaming all over my body? On everyone else I'd said it was pure desire.”  
Sherlock stared at him incredulously.  
“And you still thought that I was going to tell you about some random woman, tonight?”  
John felt a stinging pain in his chest.  
“Yeah, I already got that I've been a tremendous idiot, thank you very much.”  
Sherlock's eyes turned soft immediately and he lowered his voice.  
“We've both been tremendous idiots for a while, I assume.”  
John smiled at him and cupped his face with one hand.  
“Seems like it.” He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. “So we better start making up for it.”  
Sherlock stared at him for long seconds, his breathing turning shallow again, eyes flicking all over John's face, before he reached for the top button of John's shirt with trembling hands. Sherlock started to fumble with the top button of John's shirt, without managing to open it because his hands were shaking harder now, so John took Sherlock's hands in both of his own to still him.  
“Hey, look at me, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock looked up, lips pressed into a tight line, eyes so very insecure.  
“It's just us,” John whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock's shaking hands. Sherlock exhaled hard.  
“I know, it's just..., I...” Sherlock looked down and huffed, obviously exasperated with himself.  
“Sherlock, we can do as little or as much as you want tonight. There's no rush. It's fine, really.”  
“I want to, John, I do, I just don't know... if you... what you...”  
John slipped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling their foreheads together.  
“I want this, Sherlock. All of it. Whatever you want.”  
Sherlock brought his arms around John's shoulders, burying his face in the crook of John's neck. He inhaled once, twice, three times, before he whispered.  
“I wanted this for so long, John.”  
“Me too, Sherlock, you have no idea.”

John held him close until Sherlock finally relaxed again and his breathing and heart rate slowed down a bit.  
“Can we take my goddamn shirt off now, please? I need to feel you, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock chuckled and pulled back with a little grin and he finally started unbuttoning John's shirt in earnest until John couldn't wait any longer and pulled the annoying fabric off himself.  
They stood there, staring at each other's bare torsos for long seconds, eyes roaming over each other's naked skin and then Sherlock reached out and brushed his fingertips softly up along John's stomach and chest, over his scar and further up along his neck, back into John's hair and John couldn't take it any longer. He crashed their lips back together, pulling their bodies flush against each other and Sherlock's bare skin felt incredible against his own, warm and soft and so, so right and he moaned into the kiss.  
“God, finally.”  
Sherlock turned them so that he was the one leaning with his back against the door and John pressed into him immediately, seeking as much contact as humanly possible. Sherlock slid down a bit, so that their faces were on the same level and when their erections pressed against each other for the first time, they both groaned.  
John claimed Sherlock's lips back, licking deep into his mouth, hands roaming all over each other's bodies, touching and grabbing and stroking wherever they could reach.  
John pulled back, panting heavily.  
“Bed?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock panted and started to walk John backwards until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Sherlock guided John down slowly and kneeled down in front of him, leaning up to press a kiss onto his lips and another one on top of his left shoulder before he pulled back to look at the scar on John's shoulder. He reached out tentative fingers, tracing the edges of the marred skin before he carefully let his fingertips roam all over it and then leaned forward to trace it with his tongue and caress it with his lips. Sherlock inhaled deeply, just pressing his mouth against the scar while his hand pressed against the damaged skin on the backside of John's shoulder and John exhaled hard.  
Noone had ever done this, noone had ever wanted to touch the most damaged part of his body or even take a closer look at it, but Sherlock... he touched and kissed it as if it was the most beautiful thing in the world and John had to swallow hard, throat getting tight.  
He slipped both hands into Sherlock's curls and made him look up. Sherlock's brows furrowed immediately when he saw John's expression.  
“Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock whispered, pulling back immediately, eyes worried.  
“No, God no, Sherlock, you...” John couldn't say anything more because there was a lump in his throat that nearly chocked him and Sherlock immediately picked up on it.  
“John, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you.”  
“You didn't, Sherlock. Of course you didn't. I just... noone has ever wanted to...”  
Sherlock's lips crashed against his own, but he softened the kiss immediately, just lingering against John's lips for a moment, before he pulled back and looked into John's eyes.  
“I love you, John,” Sherlock whispered, “all of you.”  
John's chest clenched and his heart was in his throat and then Sherlock was kissing him again and kissing him and his tongue was in John's mouth and it felt absolutely incredible and John gave as much as he got until he remembered that Sherlock was still on his knees on the floor in front of him and John tucked at him.  
“Don't you want to come up here? Your knees must be hurting by now.”  
“Not yet.”  
Sherlock pulled back and there was a mischievous grin on his face that John couldn't grasp immediately. That was, until Sherlock pressed a hand against John's chest and pushed him backwards until he was leaning on the bed on his elbows with Sherlock kneeling in the V of his legs, still grinning. And then Sherlock leaned down, pressed his nose into the crease between John's thigh and his erection and breathed him in and John let his head fall backwards with a loud groan. Sherlock hummed his approval, tracing his mouth and nose along the bulge in John's trousers and John looked down at Sherlock's curls and couldn't believe what was happening right in front of his eyes.  
Sherlock's hands stroked up along John's sides and back down over his stomach until they found the buckle of John's belt and Sherlock looked up at John with pupils blown wide and eyes half lidded.  
John gave him a short nod and Sherlock unbuckled his belt slowly, opened the button of John's jeans and pulled down the zipper, achingly slow, all the while staring into John's eyes with a look that was almost predatory. Sherlock pressed a kiss against John's still clothed erection, placed both hands at the waistband of John's jeans and looked up for confirmation once more.  
John nodded again, heart beating rapidly in his chest and lifted his arse up so that Sherlock could pull his jeans down. He did so, very slowly and John just stared at his eyes that were almost black in the dim light of the bedroom. He watched Sherlock pull his jeans down his thighs and then further down and off completely, taking John's socks with him. And then Sherlock leaned down and pressed a wet kiss on top of his hard cock through the fabric of his pants and John's eyes rolled back in his sockets and he groaned.  
“God, yes.”  
Sherlock mouthed along his clothed erection, breathing him in and John could feel Sherlock's hot breath through his pants and shivered.  
“God, can you take those fucking pants off?”  
Sherlock looked up, one corner of his lips drawn up in a devilish grin.  
“Eager, are we?” he chuckled but he took pity on John and pulled the annoying garment off John's body.  
John saw Sherlock's head lowering down again and he new exactly what was going to happen, but nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of Sherlock's soft, plush lips against the tip of his cock. His elbows gave in, so that he landed flat on his back and when he felt Sherlock's lips closing around his glans he could hardly stop himself from bucking up into the wet heat of Sherlock's beautiful mouth.  
“Oh my God,” he panted and pushed both hands into Sherlock's curls, gripping tightly.  
Sherlock's tongue was swirling around the tip of John's cock once, before he took him in deeper and John couldn't prevent his hips from moving up into that heat any longer.  
Sherlock hummed in approval and took him a bit deeper every time he lowered his mouth down, down.  
“Fuck Sherlock, if you keep up that pace this is going to be over far too soon,” John panted.  
Sherlock pulled off his cock with a wet plopping sound and looked up with a grin.  
“That's rather the point.”  
John grinned.  
“You can do this to me whenever you want, but right now you're too far away. Come up here, would you?”  
Sherlock smiled and got up from the floor.  
“And take those goddamn clothes off.”  
“Yes, captain,” Sherlock grinned. 

***

Sherlock saw John's pupils dilating even further, before he slid up on the bed so that he was lying right in the middle of it.  
Sherlock stood in front of the bed for a few seconds and let his eyes roam over John's naked body, his strong thighs, his cock, hard and wet and almost purple at the tip. His stomach that was a bit softer than John would like it to be, but was actually just perfect, Sherlock thought. Pectorals well defined.  
“For God's sake, hurry,” John interrupted his thoughts in an urgent tone.  
Sherlock grinned, took a deep breath and opened the button of his trousers and then the zipper and let them fall to the ground, never taking his eyes off John's. He saw John's chest rising and falling heavily, hands twisted in the sheets beside him. Sherlock stepped out of his trousers, almost tripping in the process and managed to take off his socks without looking like a complete idiot. At least he hoped so.  
He placed his hands at the waistband of his own boxer briefs, but suddenly something tightened in his chest and his cheeks felt far too hot.  
Why was he suddenly self-conscious?  
John was lying naked in front of him in his bed, eager for Sherlock to join him and Sherlock couldn't just drop his pants and do whatever John wanted?

“Hey, it's alright, Sherlock,” John murmured, sitting up in the bed. He stretched out one hand.  
“It's alright, come here.”  
Sherlock took his hand, kneeled down on the mattress and crawled over him and John lay back down under him.  
They stayed like this for a few seconds, not touching, just looking into each other's eyes.  
“You're gorgeous, Sherlock,” John whispered and slipped one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and the other around his waste and pulled him flush on top of him and they both moaned when they were finally touching from head to toe, with only the silky fabric of Sherlock's pants between them.  
John pulled him down into a passionate kiss and started rolling his hips and Sherlock could feel John's cock hot and wet against his stomach and all he could do was pressing his face into the crook of John's neck, breathing, because he was afraid that he would loose it right then and there.  
John slipped both hands under the waistband of Sherlock's pants, grabbing his arse, pressing their hips harder together and Sherlock was already panting hard, rolling his hips to meet John's rhythm. He slipped both hands into John's hair and just held on, letting John do whatever he thought best and just met each of John's thrusts with his own.  
“Yes, Sherlock, that's it,” John panted hotly into his ear. “Just like that, oh my God.”  
Suddenly there was a hand in Sherlock's hair, pulling lightly at first and then a bit harder and then hot lips sucked at the spot right under his earlobe and the hand grabbing his arse was moving into his cleft.  
“John, I... John...” Sherlock panted, feeling the muscles in his stomach tightening and his balls drawing upwards and then, for a few glorious seconds his mind went completely blank when hot streams of come soaked his pants.  
He didn't know how long it took him to come back to himself, but when he did John was whispering into his ear and his whole body shuddered through the aftershocks.  
“God, you're beautiful, Sherlock. Jesus, look at you.”  
Sherlock took a few seconds, just breathing against the skin of John's neck, all the while listening to the sweet nothings John was whispering into his ear and then he tightened his grip on John and flipped them over, so that John was lying on top of him. John pulled back a little, grinning with his eyes shining in all shades of dark blue and black. 

That's what Sherlock had always dreamed of, John in his room, in his bed, heavy on top of him, gloriously naked. It is what Sherlock had always craved, but nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared him for the real feeling of John's body on top of his own, heavy and warm and so, so right.  
Sherlock leaned up and kissed John, a long, sweet, closed mouth kiss, with his hands stroking up and down John's sides. He let his hands wander down the sides of John's thighs and slowly back up, caressing the little hairs at the small of his back, further up his spine. Sherlock stroked over his shoulder blades, up along the back of his neck into his short hair while the other hand wandered back downwards until it found the curve of John's beautiful arse. He grabbed one cheek firmly, pulling him closer, encouraging John to rub his hips against Sherlock's stomach and oh, that felt glorious.  
The hand that had been holding the back of John's head sneaked between their bodies and closed around John's hard and heavy cock and John's eyes rolled back with a groan.  
“Oh fuck,” John panted and started rolling his hips again, meeting Sherlock's strokes.  
“Yes, John, come on,” Sherlock whispered and leaned up to catch John's lips between his own.  
John tried to kiss him back but he was too far gone already and couldn't do much more than panting into Sherlock's mouth, while thrusting faster into Sherlock's tight grip.  
Sherlock stroked him, meeting John's rhythm as good as he could and it didn't take long until he felt John tensing up on top of him.  
John's moans got louder by the second, so Sherlock grabbed John's arse tighter to push his cock harder into his hand when John suddenly went completely tense for a second. Sherlock felt John's cock pulsing in his grip and hot wetness hit his hand and stomach and chest.  
“Yes, John.”  
Sherlock kissed John's mouth and his cheeks, his jaw, his closed eyelids while he felt John's body shuddering on top of him and then he grew heavy on top of Sherlock, pressing his face against Sherlock's neck. John's chest was heaving, breath hot against Sherlock's skin and Sherlock couldn't remember ever being as happyand content as this in his life.  
After a minute or two or maybe ten, John mumbled something against that Sherlock didn't catch right away.  
“Hmm?”  
“That must feel uncomfortable by now,” John mumbled, pressing his soft cock against Sherlock's wet pants for emphasis.  
“Mmm, doesn't matter.”  
“How so?”  
“You on top of me feels too good to move.”  
John chuckled and pulled back to look into Sherlock's eyes with a soft smile.  
“We could clean us up and get comfortable again, though.”  
“If we must,” Sherlock answered, but he actually did feel quite sticky by now, with his own come in his pants and John's smeared all over his upper body.  
John crawled off him to give Sherlock enough room to get rid of his soaked pants and leaned down to grab his own pants from the floor to wipe them both clean as good as he could.  
Then he leaned over Sherlock again, looked him in the eyes and placed a tender kiss on Sherlock's mouth.  
“We should've done this long ago,” he whispered against Sherlock's lips.  
“Yes,” Sherlock whispered and slipped a hand around the back of John's head to kiss him deeply. 

***

John lay down on the pillow beside Sherlock, only inches away from him, stretching one arm under the pillow to get comfortable when his fingers brushed against something firm and soft at the same time. His brows furrowed and he grabbed the little object, pulling it out from under the pillow. John frowned at the little notebook in his hand with a cover made of dark blue velvet.  
He heard Sherlock gasping beside him and when he looked at him Sherlock's cheeks were turning a deep shade of pink. John grinned, because of course Sherlock would take one of his crime scene notebooks to bed.  
“Seriously? You take your crime scene notebooks to bed? Are you reading them as bedtime stories?” John chuckled.  
“It's not a crime scene notebook, John,” Sherlock said quietly, avoiding John's eyes.  
“Experiments, then?” John assumed.  
“No.”  
“Some grosse notes about body parts?” John chuckled and Sherlock huffed. He sat up in bed crossed-legged, pulling the sheets around his bare waist and John turned serious, frowning at Sherlock.  
“What is it, then?”  
Sherlock closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath.  
“Open it and find out.”  
John leaned up on one elbow, took a last look at Sherlock with one eyebrow drawn up in a silent question and, after a little wave of Sherlock's hand, he opened it. He felt Sherlock's intense gaze on him when he started reading the first page and his brows drew together in confusion. 

 

_‘things I love about John H. Watson’_

_\- how we can giggle in the most inappropriate situations  
\- when he ignores everyone who tells him what an insufferable git I am and asks him why in hell he keeps up with me, although he knows perfectly well that they are right  
\- how he is always by my side in a heartbeat, ready to defend me against anyone and anything  
\- how he always stands a bit closer than strictly necessary when we're out in public  
.  
.  
\- how we can communicate with nothing more than a look and a nod  
.  
\- how he makes every day a little brighter and my brain work a little faster  
.  
\- his small, but steady hands, ready to do whatever is necessary  
.  
\- his beautiful smile, the one that is reserved especially for me  
\- his eyes, dark blue and shining in the morning, but almost dark grey and deep in the evening  
.  
. _

John turned one page after another, scanning the entries. Some of them with exact dates and even times on them, others seemingly random in-between. He scanned all the numerous lines filled with Sherlock's edgy handwriting and his throat went a bit tighter with each page. He couldn't believe his own eyes. Sherlock had written down numerous little things that he had observed about John over the years. Numerous little things that he _loved_ about him. John's eyes started stinging. 

_\- how he lovingly cares for Rosie even when she's at her most grumpy  
.  
\- when he steps through the door in the morning and the first thing he does is smile at me  
.  
.  
\- how his hair glows when the sun falls through the living room window on a bright winter morning  
.  
\- how the flickering light from the fire in the mantle catches in his lashes when he has fallen asleep in his armchair  
.  
.  
\- when our eyes lock for just a few seconds longer than strictly necessary and I can almost imagine that there is more than just friendship between us_

John needed to take a little break, breathing deeply in and out for long seconds. The entries became more and more personal, the further he was reading. John looked at Sherlock, eyes damp.  
“Since when have you been writing this?” he asked softly and he saw Sherlock swallow hard and his voice came out strained.  
“On paper? Since you moved back in... In my head? Since the day we met.”  
John pressed his lips together, swallowing hard.  
“Why?” he whispered, voice trembling.  
“Because I didn't know how to keep all of this to myself.”  
John shook is head sadly.  
“I wish you hadn't kept it to yourself for so long.”  
John sat up, too now, reaching out to take Sherlock's hand that was lying in his lap. Sherlock entwined their fingers immediately.  
“Go on,” he prompted and John turned the next page a bit awkwardly, since he had only one spare hand now. 

_‘things I want to do’_

_\- read his tedious blog entries, telling him how soppy they sound, hoping that he knows how much I actually like them  
\- never work on a case alone again  
.  
\- sit just a bit closer than strictly necessary on the sofa while he makes me watch one of those tedious Bond movies  
.  
.  
\- share a hotel room, without him being uncomfortable because there's only one bed  
.  
.  
\- lie on the sofa with my head in his lap, feeling his hands stroking through my curls  
.  
.  
.  
\- make breakfast for the three of us every morning for the rest of our lives  
.  
\- transform my bedroom into ours  
.  
\- wake up with him by my side, his head on my chest, so that I can watch the sun changing the color of his hair when it rises  
\- tell him that I love him every day for the rest of our lives_

John scanned the pages until he turned to the last entry, dated from today, 7.38 pm:

_\- get a gentle kiss on the forehead so that I can remember it every time I feel sad or hurt or lonely_

John closed the notebook and traced his thumb gently over the dark blue cover. His chest felt incredibly tight and his heart was overflowing with love at the same time. He leaned back to set the notebook carefully on the nightstand behind him and turned back to Sherlock with tears in his eyes. John pulled their still joined hands close to his heart and they looked at each other for a long time. And then John leaned over slowly, deliberately, cupped Sherlock's cheek with his free hand, thumb tracing his cheekbone.  
“I promise you one thing, Sherlock. As long as I have a say in it, you will never, ever feel lonely again.”  
And with that he leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Sherlock's forehead.  
“And tomorrow we'll start working on your list,” he whispered against Sherlock's skin. 

***

They lay down side by side, John with one arm and one leg thrown over Sherlock's body, head tucked into the crook of Sherlock's neck, as if they went to sleep every night like this. Sherlock closed his arms around John's frame, pulling him closer to his chest. He heard John's content sigh and his arm tightening around his chest. Sherlock pressed his face into John's hair, inhaling the oh so familiar scent, nuzzling his nose through the grey-blond strands before he lay back, closing his eyes with a little smile.  
And before Sherlock let himself drift off to sleep with John's body heavy and grounding half on top of his own, he opened that little wooden box on the mantelpiece of his mind palace and tucked John's kiss to his forehead away carefully. 

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this story and thank you so much for leaving kudos and comments, they make my day. Every single one of them.


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